Sharp Edges
by rosa.pine
Summary: "Despite being dead, I could still feel the ache underneath my breast bone as my heart broke." One shot.


_sharp edges_

Barely twenty minutes ago I was reassuring my younger cousin that he wouldn't be reaped. At 15 years old, his name was in there only five times - four times mandatory, one time from tesserae (I still remember the sting in my palm from when I found out what he did and slapped him). He wouldn't admit it, but he was terrified at the idea of going into the arena, and knew my actions were from familial love. Antony never pushed me away, or felt belittled by the love I gave him despite his massive size (despite his youth, he could easily pass for a 17 or 18 year old). My love means nothing though when his name was called just moments ago and my heart started to cry. _Someone, anyone else, please help him! _

In district 8, the few volunteers have only ever done so to prevent the youngest from going in, and none have come back. Since Antony is fifteen, no one has the desire to take his place, and as he slowly moves through the crowd to take his place on stage I develop tunnel vision as he approaches the aisle. The words slip through my mouth before our escort, Mackellie Haniph, can call for the female tribute.

"I volunteer! I volunteer as female tribute!"

Antony turns around at the edge of the crowd and screws his face as he realizes that I have signed the death warrant for one, if not both of us. And he knows that I'm praying for it to be mine.

When I was 13, my dad and uncle died in a factory accident, resulting in my moving in with my cousin and aunt. My mother died in childbirth, giving her life for my younger sister Maggie when I was 9. I remember feeling so thankful after my mom died that my sister lived, until one day she was taken from my dad's arms by peacekeepers as a reminder for him. The quota hadn't been met in the textile factory he owned for that year, and the Capitol felt he needed a reason to strive for higher quantities in the upcoming quarter. That was the year my father sent me to start work, teaching me how to handle all kinds of blades as we helped develop whatever the Capitol desired. When we finished the quarter at nearly double the desired amount, we got little Maggie back, but not in the greatest condition. He took time off to nurse her back to health with the help of my aunt, and my uncle went to Dad's factory for him. My uncle and dad were twins, and played off each other for years, taking the opportunity to fix their families as best as they could. My aunt and uncle were poor, but were so close to being back on their own two feet when one day I was asked to stay home while my dad went in my place. I remember taking care of Maggie in my home, our aunt watching over us, when Antony was pushed through the front doors by peacekeepers. They heartlessly told us about the deaths of my dad and uncle, and warned us to stay in our home until we were given permission to leave.

Dad had warned me that something like this might one day happened, and had papers prepared in his desk to transfer ownership of the factory to my aunt until I reached majority, all I had to do was sign them with a witness. Luckily, I had two waiting in my living room. I passed off Maggie to Antony and grabbed my aunt, forcing her to sign off the sheets in case peacekeepers stormed the house and tried to take control of the factory. If there was no proof of ownership, the Capitol would simply take it over and hand it off to someone else in the community, which couldn't happen. I knew about all the blood and sweat poured into the business my dad never wanted; after all, I gave plenty myself. My aunt signed off, and I scrawled off my name as well before stuffing them into a faulty fax machine, dialing in the number for the mayors' office as quick as I could.

I don't remember much after that, mostly just the tiredness that fell over myself and my aunt as we received confirmation about the transfer of ownership, and the horror as we realized the gravity of the situation. At this point in time, I was 13, five years away from taking over the company and well trained to do so, skilled in not only handling the appliances and tools, but also a pen as I helped my dad take stock and handle shipments. I was also the only one between myself and my aunt to know how to do these things.

"Ali," my aunt closed her eyes and leaned her back against the hallway wall, bracing herself against her own words. "You're in control of everything now."

I remember the lump in my throat, and how painful it was to answer her. My dad always taught me to push through the pain no matter what, and I nodded my head. "I know."

The next five years blurred together as we all grew up, Maggie only six when I took over our father's company. Despite my aunt being the one to sign off on everything, I was the one who handled it all, juggling it between an accelerated school plan as well. I graduated and was certified a week before I turned 15, and worked as hard as I could while ignoring the possible death sentence each year. At the same point in time I had Antony join the factory floor with the other youths, the ones working to provide for their families as best as they could, all of them conveniently learning how to handle sharp edges at the same time. By the time I was 16, I had started a secret training centre in the new home my family occupied. Myself and my aunt pooled together the money we had from the wills and decided to start over for the sake of the younger ones. At the time of my uncles death, it turned out that they had been trying for another child, and my aunt found out she was pregnant a month after the funerals. She gave birth to a boy named Russel, and that was when we realized how small the home had become. With Maggie and I sharing a room, Antony having the smallest on his own, and my aunt now occupying my dad's old room with a newborn baby, the apartment I grew up started to swallow us up in waves of grief and claustrophobia. I put the place up for sale when I caught my aunt crying over the sharp words Antony had given her when he threw a fit of anger in her direction. Despite us being in the districts upper class what with the factory, my aunt and I tried to regulate the money as best as we could following the funeral, and when I went to the bank on my 16th birthday I realized how much we could afford as long as we kept hitting quota and some change. When I left the bank that day, I approached some former classmates to access the smuggling ring I knew Eight had - that was where I met Paylor. She had a wonderful way with words, and championed change in the districts without leaving a trace back to her. It was thanks to Paylor that Antony had beefed up between his 13th and 14th birthday, and by the time he turned 15 Paylor and I were handling every pie that District 8 could offer us. She was 21 the year of the 68th Hunger Games, my last one, and I knew that we would have been the new hope for District 8 if I had made it through the reapings.

But I didn't. Antony didn't. And we were as good as dead if we didn't murder our fellow tributes.

Pushing my way through my section of the crowd was easy. I inherited my father's stony face, and I was proud of my built form, tight and toned and rippling in all the right spots thanks to the manual labour of the factory I engaged with and the training I pushed myself and 13 others through, two tributes for each year. The 18 year old male was supposed to volunteer this year if it was a boy 16 or younger, as per the code we all agreed on when we started the training. Obviously he didn't and my intimidating form approached Antony's as I reached him on the way to the stage.

"Don't show a reaction." I hiss at him as he turned back around to face the cameras, and we both walk up the stage stairs while the mayor and the escort bicker about the volunteering code, and she shuts up once she sees we have walked on the stage anyways. She shows off disgustingly white teeth, each one sharpened to form points similar to Enobaria's, a victor from 2 who won two years ago, and her cheeks are flushed underneath her neon orange makeup.

"Well!" She tries not to snarl in the microphone. "What's your name, dear?"

"Aliana Evans." I speak steadily into the microphone, pretending as though I am made of stone and am not about to start swaying any second from the nausea building inside me. I cross my arms when she tries to stare me down, and flex my non-feminine biceps in a warning manner. Mackellie turns to Antony expecting a chipper face, and falters when she sees the exact same look spread across his own face. She huffs into the microphone and steps back, calling for us to shake hands. I stare down Antony and clasp his forearm as he grabs mine, and we shake each others wrists with a quick two pumps before resuming our stony stance.

Mackellie huffs once more behind us at the odd handshake, and cries out the closing line.

"Let's hear a cheer for this year's tributes, Aliana and Antony Evans!"

My eyes connect with the factory's second in command, a man named Alex, and he gave a tight nod right when the crowd starts giving a half hearted applause. If both of us failed to come back, Alex would take over. If Antony returns, Alex will take him under his wing and teach him what he needs to know.

It turns out that managing a factory in District 8 at the age of 18 is impressive to the Capitol, and I have no end to my flow of sponsors. Our chariot ride was done in business suits similar to what Capitlites wore, but more impressive, showing off the muscles split between myself and my cousin. I was shorter than Antony, but I was also older, and I knew that most of the money being pulled into our sponsorship funds were from bets being placed on me winning. I hated every second of it, yet I made sure to flex my muscles and smirk, trading looks with my cousin as we wink conspiratorially towards the audience that implied we were ready for the fight.

Antony and I both knew how effective we were with knives, and in between the time spent at survival stations we became well acquainted with hand to hand combat and related fighting techniques. According to the gamemakers, there was a small issue with the arena they planned for us to use, and so we had an extra day training to compensate for the wait. Antony spent it learning how to swim. I spent it learning how to kill children in the most humane way possible (the bruises I gained in training seemed to match the growing marks against my soul and humanity) (I didn't want to torture the other tributes, I just wanted him to live.) The careers spent it showing off their skills in a series of mock competitions, trying to scare off the competition but instead showing us their strengths and weaknesses (I feel as though I'm the only one paying attention).

In the morning, before they bring us onto the helicarriers, we give each other a brief, solemn handshake. _See you soon._

The launchpad clicked into place, and my breath is stolen away at how bright and familiar everything is, and I can see the sign reading my family name hanging on a building in the not so far off distance, and all I can think is how easy it will be to bring Anthony back alive considering we're in a carbon copy of our home. The Cornucopia glints in the town square, and now we have ten seconds left, and I can't find Antony but I can scream for him to "Run home, Antony, run home!" and everyone is confused at why I'm screaming like this when the gong goes off and the extra second is so precious to me as I run full sprint towards the cornucopia stacked with weapons eager for my blood and my lungs drag in a breath as I scoop up supplies and exhales as I dodge Four's fist and I inhale as I grab his arm and yank him behind me into the rack of spears and I exhale as I hear him become impaled on the weapons lined up as if for this exact purpose and I inhale as I grab my own weapons, anything I can put my hands on, and I exhale as I block a sword from Two and slash him in the same breath, and my eyes are wide open as his blood flies across my face barbarically, and I push forward towards where my factory lies and I run into the little girl from Twelve, where she looks so tiny and helpless, and I grit my teeth as I snap her neck as quickly as possible and move on to where I hope Anthony is, and I know if he isn't there, then I truly have become the monster the Capitol is crying for me to be (Somewhere in the back of my mind I register the fact that the weapons we have this year are short range spears, swords, and knives, which everyone can guess what that means) (I am literally crying the blood of a child who wanted to live but didn't move fast enough and it stings worse than anything else on my body).

Anthony has already begun booby trapping our factory with piping and crates when I find him, and when he turns to me with relief in his eyes I feel as though all the weight on my shoulders has been lifted, and I can't help but laugh. I shouldn't, it's practically inviting the careers to join us, but I grab my cousin by his shoulders and laugh until I start to cry, and the flaky drying blood starts to drip from my face again, and then I stop.

I told myself the night before we went in, "Ali, you're bringing him home. You promised."

He'll hate me for it, but I always keep my promises.

The third day in the arena, 9 tributes down, three tributes wandered into our factory. The girl from 3, and both from 7. The female half of 7 encountered our traps first, dangling fifty feet in the air screaming all the while, alerting us to intruders. As they snuck in, we each fought against the remaining two, alternating sides a couple times before I finally struck down the boy by bashing his head into a concrete block. Antony kept fighting with the girl from 3 and refused to let me finish the girl off. He got her into a chokehold, and refused to snap her neck or strangle her - I could see in his eyes he wasn't able to end the fight. Her fight. The girls life. I stuck my long knife between her breasts and stared into her pinched eyes, slowly glazing over with her unshed tears and incoming death. A minute later, two cannons read out. Holding her body between us, Antony and I stared at each other before simultaneously backing away from the girls body.

"I'll take care of the last one. You move the bodies," I told him.

We both didn't like having to do either.

Another cannon rang two minutes later. Shortly after, three parachutes floated down towards us.

_Thank you,_ they whisper, _for murdering those children._

Once we opened them up - two long machetes, body armour, warmer jackets, stocked backpacks, and three hot meals for each other - we heard the rest of the message.

_With love, the Capitol._

Out of the 12 fallen tributes, I have killed 6. The boys from 4, and 2, and 7, the girls from 12, 3, and 7, all I could feel on my face was their blood dripping again, _hot and fresh and messy, it's not just the bloodbath now it's also in their home their factory (not their factory) the blood is following her-_

Antony says that while he was on watch, he let a kid go. My jaw doesn't unclench for the rest of the day while we wait uneasily for the pain the Capitol _has _to send our way. Antony didn't listen to what they asked; _kill them. Kill them for us. Kill them for your survival._

By the eighth day, Antony and I were in the final six. We were so close to going home. There were four others we needed to finish before one of us could go home. I feed my cousin the bigger portion of our remaining food, and once we are done, we begin our final hours. Resetting our booby traps, we moved slowly from the ground floor to the metal catwalk crossing the ceiling, swaying more dangerously then it does at home. When we rest once more, we begin speaking to the Capitol.

"Our dear friends and fans!" I speak clearly as loud as I can. Antony matches. "As the Games slow down, we ask one last thing of you!"

"You want a show from us!"

"And we want to give it to you!"

I thrust my machete in the air, cold stale factory fumes crawling up my skin.

"Bring them to me!"

Antony snarls, and shouts "Bring them to _us!_"

When I look at him, I struggle to find my baby cousin still in his body.

It takes less than an hour for the first of the tributes to show. They come in a pair, and lose each other as our booby traps separate them. The two girls don't realize to look up, and we watch them amused as they carefully navigate the factory. One of the machines are triggered, and the girl from 4 goes down as she is quickly shredded to death. Red mist lingers on the ground floor near another entrance, and the boy from 1 walks right into it. My face hardens as we watch him, and the hair on the back of my neck raises when I see Antony hold back a laugh at my side.

"Quit laughing and finish one then."

For someone with no kills in the Hunger Games, my cousin sure was acting cold hearted. Everything was still going to plan then.

He stops laughing.

The girl from 1 sees the boy and shouts something at him. His face lights up briefly when he sees her, but it quickly leaves when a knife is thrown into his kidney from behind him. He howls, and the girl sprints towards him as the boy from 10 jumps into action, quickly killing off the other boy before taking off through the factory. He leads the girl towards the stairwell, and I turn to face my cousin.

We look at each other, and even though our faces are bloodied and unwavering, we can both see the terror in each others eyes. We have only minutes left before it comes down to one of us dying, and we know it.

Tightening my chest armour, I secure my machete over my shoulder and quickly pull Antony into my arms. I whisper in his ear _you're the best brother anyone could have had, _and he wipes at his face aggressively before kissing my cheek.

"It's showtime, Lee."

When we were younger, and I was babysat with Antony frequently, he couldn't figure out what my name was. As we grew older, he decided my name was too long for someone like me, and promptly declared my name as Lee. A small fraction from Aliana. Once I took over the factory, laws state that I was called by my proper title of Director Evans. Even in classes in school, before the acceleration program was completed, when I was called on I was no longer known as Aliana Evans. The name Lee meant everything to me, and I'd rather die as Lee than Director Evans, Head of Evans Incorporated, or Aliana, Bloodthirsty Tribute from District 8.

Our hands meet each other's forearms, and we give the customary District 8 handshake. We move quickly and rush to the stairwell the other two tributes were approaching. Antony lifted me up with ease into the rafters above the catwalk entrance before quickly hauling himself across the swinging walk way. It dangerously swayed in the air, nearly a hundred feet, much taller than the factory back home. The steel beam I was balanced on rattled as the tributes came closer and closer, the stocky district 10 boy thundering through the door frame as the girl from 1 launches herself at him with knives in both hands.

I inhaled.

Dropping down, Antony and I had both exits sealed off. The only way out would be through us, and the one tribute versus one tribute versus two tributes factor wasn't in their favour. I unsheathed my machete, and exhaled. We'd take whoever survived from the little scrap, ensuring better odds for the both of us.

The two tributes clashed against each other, the boy from 10 nearly decapitated as the girl trapped him between the bars. He quickly used her paused movement to snatch her by her hips and throw her over the edge, falling to her gruesome death. Her sharp shriek ended grotesquely, and a cannon announced her quick death.

District 10 looked at Antony before sharply turning around, intending to exit where I stood before he noticed me. The bridge swayed a little more from his movements. He tried to steady his breath, and with slightly shaky hands he held up his spear.

Antony made a motion to charge at him, but I quickly held up a fist gesturing for him to stop.

"What's your name?" I smile widely at the District 10 boy. He shifts his stance slightly, tired from running through the factory.

"Reilly."

My grin grows sinister as I lightly laugh. "Well Reilly, I'd like you to meet my cousin Antony," Reilly turns briefly to face Antony, who winks at the boy as if they're friends. "And I'm Aliana."

We pause for a few moments, and I watch as Reilly squeezes his lips together tightly, forming a thin white line across his face.

I slowly started walking towards him, casual as can be. "I just figured you should know our names. See, we have a bet going on," Antony starts a slow intimidating walk as well towards the boy, who panics as his space grows smaller. "Originally it was who could get the most kills, but I had an advantage with the bloodbath and all, so we decided whoever got the last kill goes home. Winner takes all, kind of deal. You don't mind, right?"

Reilly is close enough between us that he starts to lash out.

"Whoa, ho-o, Antony, I think this might be a good idea after all. Reilly here is Jones'ing for a _fight_." On the last word, I swung with my machete, severing his left bicep as he swung frantically at me. I bounced backwards, swaying with the catwalk and laughing lightly.

"Jeez, Reilly, can't you take a joke?"

Antony quickly skewers him with his spear in Reilly's left shoulder, causing him to bat Antony with his own spear leaving Antony's side sliced open. Both boys howl, but Antony moves quickly enough to grab the other boys spear and throw it over the edge, quickly losing hold of his own as well. He curses and moves in to quickly punch the wounded boy across the jaw, sending him back my way. I swoop down with my machete and catch him in his knee, sending the boy down to the metal grating of the walkway. He started crying softly, and I smacked his head against the grating as hard as I could.

"His crying is really grating my ears," I hear Antony say as he limped towards the boys feet. I give him an annoyed look. "Really? _Now_ you have to make a pun?"

My cousin shrugs, and as he looks down at Reilly I remember how young he really is, he's only 15, and still hasn't killed anyone. He's fought them, yeah, but I've done all the dirty work. Despite the disgusting act we put on for the Capitol, we both know who we are at heart. I only hope he remembers what I told him back on the train, before we arrived at the Capitol.

I want to give Reilly some comfort, but I know my role in these games. I clenched my jaw tightly and swing hard with my machete, nearly decapitating Reilly's head from his shoulders. Leaning back up, I dangle my weapon from my fingers and spit off the edge of the catwalk, my face composed.

"Sorry Reilly," I say monotonously towards his body. "My hand slipped."

Antony stares at me while I try to breathe deeply.

Antony's hair frays sweatily from the neat braids, and his hands slowly tighten on his machete. He squares his shoulders as he stares me down. I can see his unspoken question.

I smile half heartedly at my baby cousin as I lose my grip on my sponsored weapon, and use my other hand to grab my small dagger. My right foot steps back away from the body in front of us, and I bend my knees slightly, faking a fighting stance.

"You ready, kid?" I smirk, all real emotion gone.

It only takes me a second after he nods and prepares his own stance for me to move my hand. Only my left hand, very quickly - the steel never leaves my hand as I stab the weapon through the only vulnerable spot in my armour. Blood fills my airway almost immediately and I can taste my own blood, reminiscent of the same taste from the bloodbath. I fall almost immediately onto the railing of the catwalk, barely holding myself up, and my vision blurs with tears as the floor sways from Antony thundering towards me.

He doesn't move quickly enough though, and is only able to catch my head before it bounces off the ground, the rest of my body having already collapsed. Tears start streaming as blood immediately coats his hands, and he starts blubbering.

"Lee, no, Lee, please, please_pleaseplease don't leave me_, you can't die, Lee-"

As much as I wished the last thing I heard was my cousins voice, it was actually the sound of a cannon. Despite being dead, I could still feel the ache underneath my breast bone as my heart broke.

Nonetheless, I'm proud of myself for keeping my promise, and sending him back home alive. I'm sure Dad and my uncle will be too.


End file.
